Crunch.
Lucien bit into the last of the apple, its sweetness lingering on his tongue . Tossing the core aside, he stepped toward the cabinet once more. With a gentle tug, he retrieved the sealed clay pot and the soft bundle of cloth-wrapped bread tucked beside it.
The soup inside—though no longer warm—still let off a fragrant, herby aroma. It smelled like thyme, pepperleaf, and something faintly floral... like home, maybe. The scent reached deep into his bones, offering a comfort his mind still hadn't caught up with.
The bread, too, was fresh—unreasonably so. Soft to the touch, light in his hand, and still warm at its center, like someone had just pulled it from an oven minutes ago.
Lucien peeled off a piece and dipped it into the soup, letting it soak in the brownish broth. He raised it to his lips and took a bite.
He closed his eyes.
Warm. Earthy. Seasoned. As if someone had poured love and longing into every drop.
His chest loosened slightly.
This... this felt real.
He continued in silence. The warmth of the food gradually thawed the cold dread still clinging to his soul from the nightmare.
He gazed down at the clay pot. Out of boredom, he turned it in his hands—and only then noticed the delicate etchings carved into its side. A field of lavender, swaying in some forgotten wind.
He stared. Lost in the etchings. Losing himself.
I'm thirsty, he thought.
He glanced toward the top cabinet. Nothing.
Then checked the bottom one.
Ah, finally.
A small clay drum lay there. The force with which he opened the door made the water inside slosh gently. He grabbed a wooden cup from the marble counter, dipped it in, and drank deeply.
Then he walked back to his seat, sinking into it slowly.
The stained glass still scattered the light into kaleidoscopic fragments across the floor and walls. The room lay in a holy hush, broken only by the sound of his quiet breathing. And if one listened closely enough… the slow thump of his heart.
It's pretty boring, he murmured to himself, not knowing anything except how to read and talk with some basic things that a toddler will probably know
As the words left his lips, his gaze drifted toward his room. He stood again, calmly walking toward the other side.
Creeeak.
He opened the door.
The rays of light seemed brighter now. The day was getting old.
His eyes lingered on the parchment and grimoire resting on his ornate desk.
But then... the open mouth of the wardrobe caught his attention.
Drawn by something unknown he walked towards it.
The floorboards creaked beneath each step.
---
Lucien approached the wardrobe.
Its tall, timeworn frame stood solemnly in the corner—etched with dust and trimmed in neglect. He reached for the handle. It gave way with a low creak, as though exhaling from long-held disuse.
The doors parted.
A breath of lavender and aged wood wafted out—like a forgotten sigh sealed behind planks for too long.
Inside, the clothes swayed gently from a breeze through the cracked window.
His fingers brushed the nearest fabric: a faded poet shirt, off-white and delicately frayed at the sleeves. The embroidery at the cuffs was nearly threadbare, but he could sense the detail it once held.
It looks like the one the boy in the painting wore…
Beside it, two charcoal-grey trousers hung stiffly. Patches at the knees hinted at frequent wear—mended with care.
He paused.
A dark brown cloak hung further in, heavier than the rest. It smelled faintly of lavender… and smoke. His hand ran along its hem. Uneven stitches told a tale of quick repairs.
Further back: an olive waistcoat with brass buttons, dulled but defiant.
At the bottom, a pair of cracked leather boots sat neatly. He bent to pick one up. The soles were thin. Yet, someone had polished them recently. He could still smell the oils.
A thin violet scarf caught his eye, tucked on a hook. It was soft, hand-stitched. Silver thread had sewn little star patterns across its length.
A gift?
And then—
Wrapped in cloth, bound with twine, tucked deep in the back... he found them: the special clothes.
He loosened the twine gently, like unraveling time itself.
A black high-collared jacket unfolded in his hands, smooth and dignified with age. Silver trim ran along the shoulders, catching even the dimmest light. Beneath it: matching slacks, pressed with care. And in a wooden box below:
A pale blue silk cravat. Untouched by dust. Bright, like a sliver of sky.
Lucien blinked slowly.
His throat tightened—but why?
Then he noticed something on the inside of the wardrobe door.
A nearly faded drawing. Done in charcoal. One tall figure, one small. The child wore a crooked flower crown.
Beneath it, scrawled in that same beautiful handwriting:
---
Don't forget the feast. Wear something nice—we have to celebrate your arrival, don't we?
Looking at this drawing of yours gives me so much joy, young artist.
– Mom
---
Lucien just stood there.
No words.
No memories.
Only feeling.
These clothes weren't just garments.
They were echoes.
Fragments of a self that once laughed, once ran barefoot through lavender fields, once dressed for days worth remembering.
He reached for the special clothes and slowly closed the wardrobe.
The creak echoed gently through the room.
Then he whispered—softly, without thinking:
…I won't forget.
---
He turned to change… but paused.
There, resting just above him, sat a grimoire.
Dusty. Quiet. Forgotten.
He set the clothes down, reached up, and carefully retrieved it.
A little puff of dust danced as he blew across the cover.
A stick-figure drawing was etched into it—childlike. One small, one tall, holding hands.
Beneath it, a single word:
Memories
Lucien chuckled faintly.
Quite the artist, he mused.
He opened the book.
On the first page, in that same beautiful script:
"Good times."
He lingered.
A tremble touched his lip. A cry threatened to claw its way out.
Silence.
Then—
A voice behind him. Strained. Sobby. Trying, and failing, to stay steady:
Y-Yeah… good times…
He spun around.
She stood there.
The woman's presence that was unforgettable and her calm drifting voice.
The fractured sunlight wrapped around her like a halo—drawn to her presence, painting her in rainbow , the light veiling her face from view .
A woman like that… shouldn't cry, he whispered.
With a gesture that looked like she was wiping her:
Anyway… how about you meet the one you said was your favorite as a kid?
She stepped aside dramatically, throwing her arms wide.
Tadaaa~!
He blinked.
What does 'Tadaaa' mean
How ya doin', my prince?
A velvety voice echoed from the hallway.